Thursday, August 30, 2012

Even if the reception was better
what was being broadcast certainly wasn’t. Elton John, Barry Manilow and the
Eagles were poor replacements for Little Richard, Sam Cooke and the Drifters.
Yeah… the Drifters, the Five Satins, the Penguins, the Del Vikings, the Skyliners…all
the great groups… And nobody had recorded a decent ballad since Otis Redding
died.

Life… that’s what he had read
somewhere. It was something about art and music imitating life. But that was of
little consolation. What the hell had happened to life? No one cared anymore;
it wasn’t like in the old days.

A steady light rain peppered the
windshield causing the wipers to squeak with a metronome monotony, broken only
occasionally by the gentle swaying of the plush set of dice hanging from the
rear view mirror. No, it wasn’t at all like the old days. Hanging out in front
of the bowling alley or at Tony’s Pizza shop used to mean something. Being
there was being someone. And there was always the circuit to cruise, the Friday
night drive-in, or the local hop to check out. Hell, you might even get lucky.

Did 1975 even have such things as hops?

“Screw it,” Johnny said to no one.
Today was his birthday and he slipped one of his presents, a Buddy Holly tape,
into the waiting mouth of the Lear Jet eight track player. In an hour or so
he’d be out of these hills and be able to pick up some of the stronger Philly
stations. This was Sunday night. Maybe he could even catch the tail end of
Harvey Holiday’s oldies program on WDAS-FM. Then he’d switch to WEEZ and the
Hall Of Fame show. After that his records, his tapes and his memories would
have to see him through the week, as always.

Oh Boy blasted from the rear deck
speakers as Johnny settled back into the deep pleated black leather upholstery.
He unrolled a pack of Marlboros from his T shirt sleeve, pulled one between his
lips, flipped the pack onto the dash and reached for the Zippo in his jeans.
“Now that’s rock n roll,” he said with a grin. Lighting the cigarette, he took
a deep drag. He was right… At 50 miles per hour you could keep perfect time to
the music with the flashing white lines in the road. The Cadillac engine’s
three carburetors sang sweetly under the shaved hood of the ’49 Merc coupe. His
smile grew. At least some things don’t change.

The eerie white mist which hugged
the road along old route 30 thickened, causing Johnny to cut his speed. He’d
driven this lonely stretch between Philadelphia and Lancaster often, forsaking
the turnpike in favor of the less traveled but warmly familiar two-lane blacktop.
Johnny had been raised in the area on a small farm by foster parents who looked
upon him as more a hired hand than a son. He hated the work and isolation. On
his fifteenth birthday, Johnny packed his few belongings into the old beat up
Mercury left him by his mother and headed east for Philadelphia. He regretted having
to leave Janie, his young foster sister. Over the long hard years the two had
grown close, comforting and depending on one another. But Janie understood his
feelings and they promised to stay in touch. After two months in the city, when
no one came looking for the runaway teen, Johnny knew he had made the right
decision. This evening he was headed home after a weekend visit with Janie and
her husband and kids. With the fog getting worse, Johnny set himself in the
seat, puffed on the cigarette and strained to see the road.

“Damn!” Johnny jammed on the brake
pedal. The car swerved left and then right, skidding sideways to a stop in the
middle of the rain slicked pavement. He peered back down the road at the figure
he’d almost run over. It was a young woman standing alone on the shoulder.
Johnny could see she must have been out in the rain for some time. Before he
could turn the coupe around, she hurried towards the car, holding a beige
sweater over her head from the rain. The passenger door opened, and a beautiful
woman in her early twenties climbed inside.

“I’m sorry… I… I didn’t see you… the
fog…”

“It’s ok… I’m just glad you stopped,”
she replied, smoothing the white chiffon party dress and pulling the door
closed. “Any longer and I think I might have drowned.” Her voice was soft, her
manner easy and friendly. “I was at a dance and the guy I was with turned out
to be a real jerk. Guess it was stupid of me to walk home, but I had to get
away from there.” She opened the glove box of the vintage hot rod and pushed a
button. A small concealed makeup mirror flipped up before her, and she removed a
pale blue scarf from her hair. “Anyway, I really do love the rain, especially
when it’s over and the clouds begin to open and there’s a beautiful moon, and
everything smells so fresh…”

“How… how did you know about that?”

Ignoring his question, she began to
brush back her long blonde hair. “But then again, I did get rescued by a
handsome knight in a shiny black chariot. I live just a little way down the
road. I hope you don’t mind.”

Johnny turned the ignition key and
the powerful Cadillac motor jumped to life. “No… no problem… just show me
where.” The Mercury slipped easily into gear and rumbled down the road as
Johnny slipped in a new tape.

“That’s a beautiful locket.” The
mysterious stranger leaned over to admire the delicate gold heart shaped locked
dangling at the end of Johnny’s key chain. It popped open, revealing a single
fuzzy picture of a young boy and girl.

“That’s my dad, and my mom,” Johnny
said. “He was thirteen there, and she was about ten or eleven I think.”

She turned in her seat, sizing
Johnny up. “You look like him. You’re every bit as handsome.” The radio was
switched off, but as she spoke she reached over and pulled on one of the buttons,
resetting a station. “Oh, I love this song!” In The Still Of The Night filtered
softly from the rear speakers as she adjusted the eight track’s volume.

They rode in relaxed silence,
enjoying the old doo wop tune. “Tell me about them… your parents…” she asked,
as the music faded and the player switched tracks.

Johnny eased back, lighting another
cigarette. As he drove, he studied his passenger out of the corner of his eye.
She had brushed her hair into a cute pony tail and repaired the light makeup
she wore. He like the way she looked. This was the seventies, but Johnny hated
the painted makeup and miniskirts many women wore and men seemed to enjoy. He
found her to be warm and easy to talk with, but her eyes, soft and deep blue,
glinted sad and distant.

“Mom and dad were childhood
sweethearts,” Johnny began, the memories returning in a rush. “My dad joined
the army right after graduation. While on leave they ran off to Maryland and
were married. This old Mercury was the only thing they owned. It was his pride
and joy. Three days later he was sent overseas. He was killed in Korea.”

“That was terrible,” she replied softly.
She stared straight ahead, but not at the road. Her eyes were fixed on the
images in her mind. Johnny thought he noticed a tear in the corner of her eye.

“Yeah… Mom was barely sixteen when I
was born. I barely remember her. She died of pneumonia in ’58. That’s the only
picture I have of either of them.”

“It must have been very hard for
you.”

Johnny sighed and snuffed out the
cigarette in the ashtray. “I guess. It’s funny, my only clear memories of her
is how she would sing me to sleep every night… some old favorite rock or blues
song. She loved music; always had the radio playing. Guess that’s why I like
old rock n roll and rhythm and blues so much. Most people say I’m stuck in the
fifties.”

It was true. After coming to
Philadelphia, Johnny found work training as a mechanic. In his spare time he
fixed up the Mercury, dropping in the new motor and customizing it in fifties low ride style. Johnny loved the music and
life style of the fifties, constantly dressing in jeans, T shirt and leather
jacket. He’d become pretty much a loner, finding it difficult to talk to the
few girls he met. His life revolved around his car, his music and his memories.

“I know what you mean. Things sure
aren’t like they were back then. Oh… turn right here… my house is just up this
drive.”

Johnny wheeled the car into a long dirt
and gravel drive almost hidden by trees. He knew this section of route 30 well
and was sure he had never seen any turn offs anywhere this far out. “But…”

“This is fine.” She touched Johnny’s
arm, cutting him off. “With all this rain the road will be muddy. You might get
stuck. I can walk from here.”

The coupe came to a stop. Johnny
looked at his beautiful, baffling passenger. He wanted to say something,
anything. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to know her, who she was;
where she came from; why she intrigued him so. Most of all Johnny wanted to
know why he felt so comfortable with her.

He found himself silently staring into
her distant eyes.

Turning in her seat, she returned
Johnny’s gaze. She seemed to be studying him, memorizing his face; his
features. Finally she spoke. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with having
memories. I love this music myself; I always have. The fifties were good times.
But there are a lot of good things out there today, too. All you have to do is
take time to notice. Remembering the past is one thing; living in it is
another. If you don’t enjoy today, you won’t have any memories of it tomorrow.”
She leaned across the seat and kissed Johnny’s cheek. Tying her scarf around
the rear view mirror, smiled and opened the car door. “Take care of yourself,
Johnny, and happy birthday.”

In an instant she had disappeared
into the fog. Johnny was lost for words. Before realizing, he had backed out
onto the road and driven a few miles. The old coupe skidded to a halt. “This is
crazy,” he said to the night, spinning the car around. “Who is she? How did she
know my name?”

Gravel shot from the rear tires as
Johnny pulled the car onto the shoulder. He jumped out, searching, looking up
and down the dark highway. Cursing, he ran another quarter mile down the road.
He was sure this was where he had turned off. There was nothing but trees, thick
brush and the night. Desperately, Johnny looked up and down the road again.

Nothing…

He considered driving back another
mile or two but there was no point. Reluctantly, Johnny started the car and
pulled out onto the deserted road. He drove the next forty five minutes in
silence, lost in his thoughts. Finally, with the distant lights of Paoli and
the Main Line in view, Johnny relaxed, switching on the radio.

Static… nothing but static…

But he was close enough in now. He
should be able to pick up most all of the Philly stations. Johnny pushed one
button after another. Finally he hit the last one. The speakers crackled and
the final chorus of the Drifter’s Some Kind Of Wonderful faded. The DJ
announced the station’s call letters. It was WEEZ and Billy James’ late night
Sunday Hall Of Fame show. Johnny listened to the oldies program faithfully each
week but never set one of the car’s radio buttons to the predominately rock
station. As the announcer gave the time, Johnny realized the station was set to
the button the girl had programmed.

“And I have a very special request
and dedication for a guy out there on his birthday, this Sunday evening.” The
DJ’s words caught Johnny’s attention. “The lady sends her love and says,
‘Thanks for the ride.’ Johnny, this one’s for you.”

Johnny pulled to the curb, raising the
radio’s volume. BJ Thomas’ Rock n Roll Lullaby filled the car. He listened to
the words, recalling the evening. What was it she had said? There are a lot of good things out there
today… all you have to do is take time to notice.

The light rain finally stopped as
the touching ballad ended. The fog began to lift, and the parting clouds
revealed a big bright full moon directly overhead. It shone on the blue scarf hanging
from the car’s rear view mirror. Johnny reached for the ignition key, flipping open
the gold locket. Next to the worn photograph of his parents was a photo of the mysterious
passenger. She wore the same white chiffon party dress and stood next to the old
Mercury.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Taking time off from posting stories to do a bit of bragging. My second book, Ice Cream Camelot is finished and off to my publisher Brighton Publishing. We are hoping for an early spring 2013 release. There is a short synopsis below. Your feedback and comments are always welcome. I'd like to thank Ballard artist Emily Gussin for all of her hard work on the book's cover. The layout and artwork is worth the price of admission by itself. Also, I'd like to again thank everyone for their continued support, both of my first novel Elysian Dreams, which continues to sell well, and here with my blog site. You keep reading and commenting and I'll keep posting. And for those who asked: Yes, The Most Dangerous Pitch, last week's post, is a true story, and aside from occasional sparks and flashes, my eye is doing fine, thanks. We won last week's softball game 34 to 5!

Ice Cream Camelot by BJ Neblett

Ice Cream Camelot presents the history of the Kennedy
administration within the funny and touching memoir of a young boy coming of
age during those significant years. But this isn’t the Wonder Years revisited,
and Billy Neblett isn’t your typical eleven year old. His family has recently
moved from his beloved South Philly, and shy young Billy is repeating the fifth
grade while struggling to stay out of trouble, make new friends and deal with a
growing dependency on alcohol. All the
while, Billy is attempting to find his own identity in an increasingly
confusing and frightening world. Amid school bullies, killer nuns, the race for
space, peaceful sit-ins, violent race riots and the growing threat of nuclear war,
Billy finds his heroes in the most unusual places. Legendary rock n roll DJs Hy
Lit and Joe Niagara take Billy under their wing, mentoring him and fostering a
love of radio. But it is or 35th president, John F Kennedy from whom
Billy finds hope and inspiration. Painfully aware of the irony in his life –
there are no blacks in lily white suburban Lawrence Park, and girls are treated
as second class citizens at St Pius X Catholic Grade School – Billy looks to
the charismatic JFK as the savior of Camelot for himself and his first love
Amy. Ice Cream Camelot is a unique, engaging and entertaining look at one of
the most important eras in American history.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Blood dripped onto the hard,
cracked, sun dried earth, creating puddles of crimson mud. This was the first
time I’d been hit and unable to complete a play. That’s what made me the
maddest; that and the fact that we were ahead, winning. I was pitching a
shutout into the fourth inning: no walks; a couple of strike outs. The nine
guys behind me were doing a great job of handling the ball. And our opponents,
a team made up of tough, young Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, were no slouches
in the field.

I was still standing when the first
player reached me. I think it was Jose from the other team. He’d been on second
base. Bent over, my blood pooling at my feet, I felt the comforting touch of
his strong hand on my back.

“Easy, take it easy.”

My hand cradled my swollen right
eye. It felt as if it would pop from its socket. Adrenalin still surged in my
body as my good left eye desperately searched the infield around me. “Where’s
the ball… where’s the damn ball?”

A double, which would mean Jose
would score. I cursed silently and then caught myself, asking for God’s
forgiveness; and to save my sight. By now my eye throbbed, swollen shut,
swelling to nearly the size of the softball that struck it.

“Damn,” I repeated out loud as my
team mates began to crowd around. Shock and concern showed through their
troubled cries of, “Oh, God,” and “Wow!” Then again, head and face wounds do
tend to bleed a lot. You’d have thought someone spilt a quart of red ink into
the parched dirt just behind the pitcher’s mound.

As a pitcher, you have an invisible
target painted on your chest. You are fair game for every line shot, bouncing
drive, and screaming grounder that burns its way up the middle. On the mound
you have two responsibilities: pitch the ball, and get set. Or, better put,
catch the ball without getting killed in the process. In baseball, you are
sixty feet, six inches away from the batter, and raised ten inches. Softball
plants you on the same plain as the hitter, some forty seven to fifty feet from
home plate. And the extra feet can make all the difference, the difference
between a hit and an out; between a bad bruise and a career ending injury.

Baseball rookie for the Cleveland
Indians, Herb Score led the American League in strike outs each of his first
two seasons. In 1957, during a game against arch rival New York, Score was
struck in the eye by a line drive off the bat of Yankee Gil McDouglas. His
comeback lasted five frustrating seasons. But the one time overpowering pitcher
never again posted a winning record.1

While waving to a relative during
warm ups at Washington’s Griffith Stadium, Julius ‘Moose’ Solters was struck in
the face by a thrown ball. The veteran American League outfielder fought back
from the injury, but it eventually caused him to go blind.2

Being known as possibly the first
and only person ever blinded during a softball game was not a distinction I was
interested in carrying.

No one intentionally tries to hit
the pitcher. That would be stupid. Chances are you’d be thrown out at first;
maybe out of the game if your intentions are known. It just happens, more often
than many people realize. Hairline shin fractures, battered knee caps and
dislocated fingers are a part of a pitcher’s life. I should have known better.
I have the experience, and the scars, to prove my point.

In slow pitch softball, after
release, there is an easy two and a half to three seconds before the ball
reaches the plate. There’s plenty of time for a hitter to adjust himself in the
batter’s box, and more than enough time for the pitcher to get set. Freak
accidents do happen. But there is no excuse for any player not to be ready.

Getting sloppy on the mound can
shorten your career considerably. A combination of recent victories, plus
having avoided being seriously hit for some time, conspired to make me
careless. Instead of watching the travel of the ball, estimating where the hit
ball would travel, and getting set, I found myself remaining planted on the
rubber, no better than a spectator, after the pitch.

To compound matters, I’d been
working on a new pitch. The past couple of weeks, while honing my curve ball, I
discovered a sharp downward breaking ball. During batting practice, the new
pitch proved devastating to right handed hitters, and frustrating for lefties.
Cutting sharply inside and dropping with a wild spin, no one seemed to be able
to strike the ball squarely. The best efforts of some of the most skillful
hitters resulted in a bouncing hard grounder or a low line drive. A few were
able to get the ball in the air. When they did, it usually went straight up for
a short pop fly.

Because of the propensity of even
pull hitters to send the pitch back up the middle of the infield, I jokingly
dubbed my new weapon my ‘come back pitch.’ During practice I threw out several
surprised opponents at first base. My come back, often as not, came back right
into my waiting glove.

I worked on perfecting my new pitch.
Slow pitch softball is far from an exact science. Tossing the oversized sphere
at the proper height and arc, the ball falls victim to the slightest breeze.
Sometimes you can make the wind work for you, bending an outside lob right into
the face of an unsuspecting hitter, or cutting the edge of the plate. That is,
if you are lucky. Otherwise, the best you can hope for is a corner plate
strike. Knuckle balls, spinners and curve balls can also be used to thwart
hitters, but are difficult to master. My ‘come back’ pitch had the added
advantage of a fast, tight spin, making it extra difficult to place squarely on
the bat.

One of my heroes of the old time
players is a pitcher for the hapless Washington Senators, nicked named ‘the Big
Train.’ From around 1900 through the ‘20’s, Walter Johnson terrorized hitters
with what most consider to be the fastest fast ball in the major leagues, then
and since.

How fast was Johnson’s fast ball?

Consider Ray Chapman.

Chapman once took first one, then a
second blazing fast ball from the Big Train, Johnson. Stepping out of the
batter’s box, the stunned hitter headed towards the dugout only to be reminded
by the umpire he had another strike coming. Chapman continued on his way, calmly
calling back over his shoulder, “Keep it. I don’t want it.”

Perhaps the ill-fated Chapman should
have taken the event as an omen. On October 10, 1920, while up at bat, Ray
Chapman was struck and killed by a fast ball from pitcher Carl Mays.3

We jumped out to a quick two run
lead our first at bat. I managed to set down three of the four batters I faced
in the bottom of the first, including a strike out. Our team went three up,
three down, as did the opposition, in an uneventful second inning. We went up four
to nothing with two more runs scored in the third off of left fielder Ron’s
triple. The last of the third started off innocently enough with a routine pop
fly. Then the bottom fell out. A single up the middle, a misplayed grounder
followed by a line shot, and the bases were loaded. And the top of their lineup
was coming to bat.

It was time for some fancy arm work.

It was time to try out the ‘come
back.’

The first pitch caught Alfredo, a
good hitter, by surprise. Looking at first like it would fall short and
outside, the ball veered sharply inside, slicing the edge of the plate. The
look on his face was priceless.

Ok… strike one…

So far, so good...

I gave him two junk pitches to think
about, then another come back. It tipped off the edge of his bat and rolled
harmlessly towards the mound, right to me. A quick throw home for the force and
there were two outs.

Franco wouldn’t be so easy. After a
couple of called balls and a come back called strike, I gave him a sharply
curving breaking pitch, thanks to a friendly cross breeze. He swung hard. But
the backspin sent the ball straight up. It was caught by the catcher. Out
number three and we were out of the inning. The come back had done its job.

Our fourth inning produced a couple
of hits but no runs. Then it was their turn again. And their three best
sluggers were coming to bat.

Jimmy is a strong pull hitter. He
had managed a double and a triple off of me in other games. He wouldn’t bite on
a short lob which fell ineffectually in front of the plate. My second pitch, a
come back, he sent past me to my right. Our short stop bobbled the hard hit
bouncing grounder, but managed to throw Jimmy out at first.

Next was Jose, the team’s cleanup
hitter and a threat to send one out anytime at bat. He’d gotten a deep
dangerous fly off of me in the first inning which thankfully turned into a long
out. I toyed with him best I could, giving him nothing to swing at until the
count was three and two. Then he saw my come back. He not only saw it, but
lined it like a rocket past me, the short stop and the infield for a double. My
come back was earning its name. Those two shots should have told me something.
They didn’t. I was still standing flat foot on the rubber.

Bugara hits the ball probably as
hard as humanly possible. His drives jump to the outfield before anyone has a
chance to react. He once hit three tape measure homers over center field in
three consecutive at bats in one game. I didn’t have the time or the
inclination to foll around with him. Not with Jose at second and only one out.
Even a sacrifice fly to the outfield would result in a run scoring. I took a
deep breath, let it out, and tossed a come back.

And it did…

As best I can figure, the ball came
off his bat and tipped off my glove in about half a second. That works out to
something like 75 or 80 miles per hour.

And there I stood.

I raised my glove, but not quickly
enough, not far enough.

Victims of automobile accidents
often report that at the moment of impact time seems to move in slow motion. I
now understand what they experience. For one protracted fraction of a second
time stood still. The din of the spectators faded to a distant thunder in my
ears. My gloved hand crept skywards. It paused motionless in front of me about
nose level. The dull white leather clad ball balanced precariously on the edge
of the mitt’s webbing, frozen in space. One thought replayed in my mind over
and over, like a stuck 45 RPM record: I’m not going to catch this.

I was helped off the field, still
holding the bloody wad of tissue someone provided, against my eye brow. It is
interesting and strange to note that I never experienced any major pain,
especially considering the seriousness of the injury. At the time of the
impact, I felt as if punched by a gloved boxer, more surprising than painful.
After, a dull, achy throb and a feeling of pressure against the eye ball were
the main discomforts. By morning, and for several weeks, the entire orbit
around my right eye remained extremely tender, swollen and sore.

It’s never a good sign when your
attending physician grimaces at your injury. The swelling and discoloration
were severe. For others it made looking at the damages more painful than the
actual experience. After tolerating an hour of ice, the gash just below my eye
brow was cleaned and stitched. A comprehensive exam commenced including x-rays
and a lot of discomforting prodding and poking. The doc said keeping the badly
swollen and bruised eye socket well iced may have helped saved my sight. I was
released with anti-biotic and strict orders to keep my eye iced constantly for
the next twenty four hours. Two days later an optimistic optometrist said he
could find no permanent damage, thank God. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
He told me it would be weeks, maybe more, before the long term affects of such
an injury could be determined.

In the ‘60’s, Tony Conigliaro was
well on his way to a hall of fame career. Joining the Boston Red Sox in 1964,
in just a few seasons, the twenty two year old right fielder hit an amazing 104
home runs, running up 294 RBIs, with a .276 average.

On August 18, 1967, Tony C came to
bat in the fifth inning against California Angel’s pitcher Jack Hamilton. A
fast ball, estimated near 100 MPH, struck Conigliaro in the left cheek bone.
The impact shattered his eye socket and permanently damaged his left eye.

Conigliaro was carried off the field
on a stretcher. It wasn’t immediately known if he would survive the injury.
Tony survived and returned to the Red Sox in 1969, moving to the Angel’s in
1971. After three disappointing seasons, it was evident the damage done on that
August night on 1967 was too great, and he retired.

Tony C suffered a massive heart
attack and stroke in 1982 which left him in a vegetative state. The one time
Cooperstown bound slugger passed away shortly after his 45th
birthday in 1990.4

Sunday, October 14th. It
was too soon. I knew it was too soon. The days were growing short, the air
chilly. Softball would be ending. I wasn’t about to spend the winter wondering
how it would feel; wondering if I would pitch again; if I could pitch again.

Outwardly, my eye was healing
quickly. All that remained was some discoloration and a forming scar where the
stitching of the ball cut me.

But that was on the outside.

The pressure on my eyeball subsided,
returning from time to time. And my depth perception was nearly normal. At
least that’s what I told myself. But I was starting to be bothered by sparks of
light, flashes they are called, and they can be harbingers of more serious
problems to come.

Still, I was determined; stubborn.

For the first time in my life,
nervousness and doubt accompanied me to the mound. Doing my best to shake the
feeling, I steeled up some counterfeit courage and took my warm up pitches.

Not bad…

Not good either…

Then again, a four week layoff will
rust up anybody’s arm. Even without a batter to face, I found myself purposely
avoiding the pitch that had nearly blinded me. It’s too soon I rationalized.
Just stick with the basics.

It did little to easy my churning
stomach.

The first hitter of the game dug
into the batter’s box. A familiar, reassuring voice reached me from left field.
It was my friend Ron. “Give ‘em the old ‘come back,’ Billy!”

Saturday, August 11, 2012

First let me thank everyone who has been following my blog. I hope you have enjoyed the short stories and rants and ramblings. I'll continue to post my stories here, you continue to comment and sent you feedback. In case you didn't know (why would you) almost all of my short stories and my first novel Elysian Dreams were written the old fashioned way...by hand on legal pad. As you can imagine, it takes some time to transcribe them on to the computer. Next week I hope to have a short story/essay up about the day I took a hard line drive to my right eye. (Aside from writing, baseball/softball is my other passion/vice.)
This week's exciting news is that I just finished my second book. Ice Cream Camelot is a memoir about my growing up during the Kennedy era. It's a look into my early life as well as a brief history lesson on the crazy early '60's. With the fiftieth anniversary of Kennedy's assassination coming up next year, we are shooting for a late winter/early spring release. I'm sure there will be thousands of stories, articles, books, TV specials and such during 2013 about that portentous day. Ice Cream Camelot attempts to show the every day life of a young boy coming of age and greatly influenced by our youngest president. as we get closer to publication I'll probably post some excerpts here.
I've been asked several times how it feels to write such a personal and telling memoir. Ice Cream Camelot pulls no punches. It's not the Wonder Years revisited. I was no saint growing up. Writing it wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done, that's for sure. The best way I can describe writing Ice Cream Camelot is this: It was like finding my deepest artery, cutting it open, and just letting it bleed. And it all did come out as you'll read. I am extremely pleased with the way the book turned out and am anxious to get your feedback.
Till next time, as i used to close my radio shows... The message is in the music!
Peace,
BJ

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Todd Worth settled into the thick
winged back leather desk chair of his plush twelfth floor office overlooking
the Thames. Outside, a cheery yellow sun cast it contented smile on the smoke
tinted windows, reflecting Worth’s mood. On the expensive mahogany desk waited
an iced can of Pepsi, while a single yellow light on the multiline telephone
blinked impatiently. Worth ignored it, staring blankly at the framed photo of
his new sports car.

Worth mumbled to himself, a strand
of sandy blonde hair falling across his smooth, tanned brow as he reached for
the speaker box. “Thank you, Ms. Schafer. I’ll see him in a minute.”

Pressing the flashing yellow button,
he lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello… Todd Worth here… what’s that? No,
no… I’m afraid Nigel Bannister is no longer with the company… yes, that’s
right… took an early retirement, I’m in charge now… yes, quite… very good.”

He hung up the phone, his last words
echoing sweetly in his mind: I’m in
charge now…

Todd Worth was a good, albeit casual
man; a company man. He learned the coffee business from his father. From
plantation to export to refining to packaging to shipping to merchandising,
Todd Worth knew his beans. He spent twelve long, sweltering years in South
America as a company representative, dealing with plantation owners, cartels,
drug lords, dictators and revolutions.

The next decade Worth spent dealing
with hurricanes and sea sickness, riding the endless blue green waves of the
Atlantic. He’d graduated to the position of senior supervisor of shipping. The
fancy title translated into interminable hours at sea babysitting the company’s
cargo of coffee beans.

Then for six years Todd Worth rode a
desk. He was finally back in England, this time checking and rechecking the
status of shipments to the company’s numerous distributors. The work was boring
and repetitive. And, it seemed for a time he would ride this desk to
retirement.

But Todd Worth always considered
himself a lucky man.

The unexpected and troublesome work
stoppage had mushroomed into an international incident. Coffee growers all over
the world refused to pick or ship the valuable commodity. Chain stores and
independents across the US and Canada canceled major orders, removing from
their shelves all products produced by the coffee conglomerate. Consumers
around the globe stood in support of the boycott for better conditions for the
people of the tiny village of San Rosario. Common stock of the London based
company plummeted, with no bottom in sight.

But Todd Worth’s luck held true.

Forty eight hours earlier Worth was
in the right place at the right time when aging CEO Smyth pointed his finger
and made his decision. Now Todd Worth was enjoying his first full day as vice
president of export and international relations.

Worth rose, confidently fiddling
with the Windsor knot of his hand painted silk tie from Soho. The door to his
office opened and a man with graying temples, round spectacles and a limp
entered. “How are you, Todd? My, it’s been a time hasn’t it?” The two men shook
hands, sizing up one another like a pair of British bulldogs.

“Yes, quite, Quincy, quite some
time. How are things at the hospital?”

They took up positions in matching arm
chairs near the oversized window. “Oh, well, running along smoothly as ever,
you know.” Dr. Quincy Hawthorn considered the opulent office. “I must say,
you’ve done well by yourself, old chap.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve come a long way
since Eaton, haven’t we?” Worth turned in his seat, his brown eyes narrowing.
“I need your help Quincy old man, I’m up against it. Surely you’ve heard about
this mess in South America. I can’t see how anyone could avoid it. That school
of yours has recently graduated a fresh batch of interns. Perhaps you could
fine me one willing to pull a year or two of service in Colombia. The company’s
setting up a wonderful little clinic in a place called San Rosario. It will be
well equipped and maintained; there’s a fine hospital nearby and the pay is
decent. It should be a great experience as well as quite the adventure for the
right chap.”

The doctor studied his flaccid faced
friend carefully. He knew what medical facilities in remote places could be
like. He knew that the nearby
hospital was in Vélez, a grueling full day’s journey. And he was aware that
this was as much a publicity ploy as a humanitarian effort. Still, Worth was
right. The medical experience gleaned would be invaluable to a young doctor
just starting his practice. He thought of his own years with the home service
as a young doctor in India.

Dr. Hawthorn smiled, nodded and made
his decision. “Ok, Todd, I’ll find you a doctor. I’ll start the process
immediately. In fact, I think I just might have the perfect candidate.”

Rising, they strode to the door.
“Thanks, Quincy. I knew you’d come through for me. Ring me up as soon as you
have somebody.”

As the office door closed, Worth’s
own words returned, playing over like a stuck record: I’m in charge now…

He grinned slyly. “I’m in charge
now,” he said to no one, straightening his tie. “And I make the decisions. You
got your health clinic thanks to a lot of bleeding heart liberals and that
senile old duck running this company. But just step out of line again and
you’ll have to deal with Todd Worth!”

September
6, 6:39 PM

Flagstaff,
Arizona

“So, you’ve made up your mind?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s it? You’re back home
less than a month and you are leaving again?”

“Dad, I…” Paul Chandler slid the
half eaten meal from in front of him. Across the elegant dining room table his
father eyed him curiously. “Dad, I know it hasn’t been easy for you since mom
passed away.”

Dr. Thomas Chandler balled his linen
napkin, tossing it onto the table. “I told you, Paul, your mother has nothing
to do with it,” he replied, closing his eyes and his mind to the bitter memory.
“Lord knows I’ve missed her these last two years. But I’m fine, son, just
fine.”

Paul smiled across the room. He
loved his father and would do anything for him. He understood his father’s
pain. There wasn’t a day that went by he didn’t miss his mother. He remembered
how proud she was the day he started college, following in his father’s
footsteps. His mother had been his biggest fan and strongest supporter during
the difficult first years of pre-med. It wasn’t fair. She never got to see her
son graduate from medical school.

“Why do you think we sent you off to
that school in England?” his father asked for about the tenth time since Paul
broke the news. “We wanted the best for you; you are a part of this family, and
a part of the family business, Paul. You and I are a team. Your Uncle Jack and
cousin Jess are looking forward to you joining us at the clinic.”

“That’s your dream, dad,” Paul said
patiently, “not mine. At least it isn’t right now. Perhaps in a couple of
years, after…”

“After what?” his father
interrupted. He caught himself. He didn’t mean to raise his voice. But this
wasn’t the way it was suppose to be.

“Dad, those people in San Rosario
need me.”

“Those people don’t even have any
kind of a facility for you yet. If you are determined to go, what’s your
hurry?” Chandler faltered, the words welling up in his chest. “I need you, son,
here at the clinic, the way your mother and I always planned.” Rising from the
table he began to pace. “I’m sorry, Paul, it’s just so hard to understand.”

Paul’s quiet blue eyes turned
inward. “The Grand Canyon…”

“How’s that…?”

“The Grand Canyon,” Paul repeated
softly. “Do you remember that trip we took to the Grand Canyon?”

The question caused the senior
Chandler to stop and turn. “Why, you couldn’t have been more than seven or
eight years old.”

“I was six. And we never made it to
the Canyon. Remember, dad?”

Dr. Chandler’s stern face softened.
“Yes…”

“Traveling up route sixty four,”
Paul continued, “we were flagged down by that Hopi Indian family. The woman was
in heavy labor, a breach birth. You saved her life… and the baby. But not just
that, you made the decision to go with them all the way to the hospital, over
seventy miles away. You wouldn’t leave her until she was out of danger. For two
days mom and I waited in that old motel room while you remained with your
patient. By then our vacation was over and we had to return home. Later you
took me aside and explained. You told me no one, regardless of who they may be,
should have to suffer for lack of medical attention. I was never so proud of
you. It was then and there I knew I wanted to be a doctor… just like my
father.” He rose, moving to his father’s side. “Now I am a doctor, dad, just like
you. And I’ve made my decision.”

Dr. Thomas Chandler smiled and
nodded at his son but said nothing as he walked out of the room.

Young Paul Chandler looked up as his
father entered the kitchen. “Good morning, dad. How are you? I haven’t seen
much of you these last two days. Is everything ok?”

Dr. Chandler poured himself a glass
of juice. “I’ve been very busy; had plenty to occupy my time… and my mind. Son,
I…”

“Dad, don’t… please. Everything is
set. I’m leaving in an hour.”

Setting his glass aside, Chandler
grinned broadly at his son. “Yes, I know: US Air flight 90 to LA; American
Airlines from LAX to Panama City; then Aeromexico to Bogata. The train and Jeep
trip into the hills promises to be interesting. It should be quite an
adventure. Hopefully, the medical supplies I’ve arranged for won’t be far
behind us. We should arrive in San Rosario sometime Thursday.”

“We…?”

Chandler placed a loving hand to his
son’s arm. “You are right, Paul. I’ve lost sight of why I became a doctor.
Thanks for the kick in the pants.”

“But, what about the clinic here in
Flagstaff?”

“Uncle Jack can handle it while
we’re gone. He’s got Jessica and a great staff. Hell, the place practically
runs itself. I doubt if I’ll even be missed. I’m sure your mother would
approve. Besides, I told you, we’re a team.”

Rick McConnell was running late. Not
having his morning coffee didn’t help his disposition. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry; I just didn’t have time
yesterday. I’ll stop by Tully’s this afternoon.”

McConnell swallowed hard, struggling
to contain his anger. “Damn it, Laura, I ask you to do just one thing, just
one! You know how important this meeting is to me. If I can get on old man
Baxter’s good side I’m a shoe in for a promotion.”

“And the best way to get on his good
side is with that special coffee,” McConnell’s wife replied patiently. “I know,
you’ve told me.”

Reaching for his briefcase,
McConnell started across the kitchen. “Then you know how much he loves his
coffee. Because of that nonsense with the growers, it’s been months since he’s
been able to get any. That specialty coffee shop promised the first shipment
would be on their shelves yesterday!” He nervously checked his wrist watch.
“Let’s see, they should be open now…”

“No, Rick, surely you’re not thinking…
that’s all the way up in Ballard, the only store that carries that blend. Your
meeting is in forty five minutes. You’ll never make it in time.”

Rick McConnell’s kiss barely grazed
his wife’s cheek as he barreled out the door. “I’ll make it…”

Thirty minutes later, McConnell’s
Ford raced down 15th avenue. On the passenger seat rested a package
of rare, expensive coffee beans: San Rosario Select Blend. Up ahead the Ballard
Bridge began to lazily creek open, allowing a fishing trawler to glide silently
beneath. Traffic on the busy thoroughfare slowed to a stop.

McConnell cursed aloud, pounding a
fist to the dashboard. Ignoring the red flashing warning signals, he wheeled
the silver Taurus onto a side street. A block further the speeding vehicle
violently broadsided a minivan as it backed out of a driveway.

Five year old Mary Ellen, on her way
to her first day of pre-school, was killed instantly.